


All the Future Mornings

by dragonofdispair



Series: Morning [3]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: (but they’re married and trying for kids!), (how do I tag responsibly planning for the future?), Breeding, Family Planning, Implied/Referenced Abuse of Authority by Police, M/M, Misuse of Police Tools, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-War, Racing, References to Eggpreg, Semi Public Sex, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Unsafe Sex, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:46:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21656227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/pseuds/dragonofdispair
Summary: It’s Prowl’s turn to dom, but he’s not really happy about it.
Relationships: Barricade/Drift | Deadlock, Jazz/Prowl
Series: Morning [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1553491
Comments: 89
Kudos: 78





	All the Future Mornings

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇ 

.

.

.

It wasn’t the sudden onset of an urge Prowl knew was foreign. It was more insidious than that. It was a constant temptation, especially while he was at work. It was fantasies he knew could not be his own, his mind conjuring images that were morally and personally abhorrent. 

Cybertronians did not have a prey drive. There had never been a period where they had hunted or foraged or chased their food for any reason. It was, and had been ever since the confinement of sparks into metal forms, mined. Or it dripped one tiny globule of liquid at a time from solar collectors. Chasing was not something those earliest miners, those farm-builders had done. It wasn’t something Cybertronians did at all. 

More complex societies required adaptation. Farms had become villages. Villages towns. Towns cities. The rise of civilization had prompted the rise of criminals who preferred to steal and cheat the system. That, in turn, had prompted the rise of guards, police. Enforcers.

And Enforcers needed to _chase._

He knew why Enforcers needed software patches. He didn’t — necessarily — disagree either. Those who broke the law needed to be caught, and without the software patch there just weren’t enough mechs with the right temperament. He just hated the effect it had on him. The effect he could see it had on those around him.

To get around the lack of a prey drive in the Cybertronian psyche, the programmers had decided to tap into other drives. The interfacing drives. They were programmed to feel pleasure stalking, chasing, catching their prey. 

Until recently, Prowl hadn’t believed that anyone had ever taken the final step of _fragging_ those they’d caught. Bullied and harassed, yes, and that was more than bad enough, but… 

There _were_ other, _acceptable_ outlets for the urge! Every station had… facilities, where an officer could go and indulge themselves with a willing partner. A friend, a conjunx. Each other!

Except… Prowl had rarely heard of an officer submitting to another officer. Those that did were often mocked for it. If it were known that Prowl had a contraceptive implant at the top of his gestation sack, _his_ reputation would suffer for it, since the implication was that Prowl was weak for letting himself be spiked regularly enough to need it. And not all of his coworkers had conjunxes. But everyone should have a willing friend or a fragbuddy. There were even “professional friends” that advertised around the track. Prostitutes, of a sort, but rather than mere streetwalkers that exchanged sex for cash, these were mechs who skirted the laws against prostitution by arranging “dates” or “outings” that ended at the track with their legs spread. Enforcers were required to register at their department’s racetrack with their willing partner, and if an officer went too long without signing in _with_ their partner, they were supposed to get a visit from the department medics to make sure the coding was working properly. He’d gotten them often enough when he’d pushed down and denied his desires for too long. Then, after the humiliating medical visits, he’d broken down and asked a professional friend out to an evening of drinks that ended at the track. He’d often needed to be drunk to go through with what the coding required of him.

Prowl didn’t have access to the records, but he now wondered if mechs who put off their visits to the track shouldn’t also be receiving visits from Internal Affairs.

Ricochet hadn’t admitted he’d been taken advantage of (call it what it was, he scolded himself; Ricochet had probably been raped) by an officer, but Prowl wasn’t _stupid._ There was a particular flavor to Ricochet’s attraction to using the fake baton, the faux-police cuffs. Jazz used them too, because Prowl had an inescapable attraction to them being used on him, but Ricochet didn’t just want to punish him with it. Didn’t just lock him in like they were any other cuffs. He said all the right things, made all the right threats.

“Hey!” Prowl looked up from his rumination to meet the optics of Barricade. He was from… Property Crimes, Prowl remembered. As a homicide detective, Prowl didn’t interact with him much. To be honest, he wouldn’t even know Barricade’s name if he hadn’t checked who else was using the track this cycle when he had checked in with his conjunx. Jazz was in the partners’ locker room, leaving the two officers alone in theirs.

“Hello,” he greeted politely.

Barricade nodded acknowledgement. “Thinking about the baton?”

“Yes,” Prowl answered, mostly because it was obvious. He’d been staring at the baton after all. 

Barricade nodded, and invited himself to sit down on the bench next to Prowl. “Never take it out onto the track before? You should,” he advised when Prowl shook his head. “It’s fun.”

It would be, the coding ensured it, but he had not discussed doing so with Jazz yet and so he would not. He was ashamed to ask him later; Prowl had not physically enjoyed being fragged in his aft port and he could not imagine it was an activity Jazz would like either. It was, in this context, wholly about the inherent violation of the act and Prowl’s coding thought that made it a great idea. Taking it up the aft was a subject of _scorn_ among the department gossips, and those officers’ partners who submitted to it on the track were mocked endlessly. If they knew Prowl had… “I will think about it,” he hedged, only because “timid” officers did not get promoted and he could not afford the reputation of submitting to his partner. 

“When you do,” Barricade said, knowingly, “shove it up his aft and shock him a few times. He’ll scream. It’s fantastic.” 

And that was why Prowl now had suspicions. Ricochet didn’t just make the right threats to fit seamlessly against Prowl’s secret shame; he _spoke like an Enforcer_ when he made them. He sounded exactly the collective pool of forbidden fantasies that got passed around the officers’ locker room. Somewhere, somehow, Ricochet had heard the words, could repeat them verbatim, and took so much delight in doing those things to Prowl because Prowl was an Enforcer. 

Maybe, at one point in his past that Prowl didn’t know about, Ricochet had been a professional friend, but… Prowl didn’t think so.

Prowl hummed. The coding ensured he’d find the image attractive, but in truth he felt sick.“You should finish getting ready,” he suggested, just to get Barricade to go away. “I need to clean out my wheels, or they won’t let me on the track.” 

“Sure, sure.” Barricade stood and moved away. “Could make him suck on it,” he threw back, “if you’re not ready for aft play. Shove it down his throat while you frag him and make him choke—”

“I’ll _think_ about it,” Prowl snapped back, doing his best not to. He couldn’t help how his engine picked up, turned over… couldn’t stop the image of Jazz spread out on the ground, with Prowl’s spike fucking him from one end and the baton fucking him from the other…

With Barricade gone, Prowl shoved the baton into the locker with his scattershot rifle, his real stasis cuffs (he’d be using the realistic-looking toy ones today), and his other equipment, then slammed the door closed. He spun the lock to make sure it caught and tried to escape the sounds of Barricade working himself up to enacting his own fantasies.

Aroused and sick with it, Prowl stalked out onto the track proper. He had more control than to have his panel open and his spike hanging out, but he was running hot. 

The track was not the smooth oval professional tracks were. It was a twisting, obstacle course of intersecting streets, traffic lights, overpasses, hollow buildings, construction sites, dead ends and hidey-holes for a pair to ensconce themselves into. There were hard light projectors in the ceiling to give a training group a realistic simulation of a city and its traffic to practice with, but right now the projectors were off. The streets were empty. The traffic lights were dark. There would be nothing to distract him from chasing down his prey, nowhere for the mech to hide, and when Prowl caught him and cuffed him he’d haul him into one of these nooks and—

“Hey Prowl.” Jazz smiled where he leaned against the starting area. “Sure you don’t wanna trade partners with that other guy? His _friend,”_ the inflection made it clear that Jazz meant a _professional friend,_ “is a cute little white speedster who could probably drive us both to exhaustion if he’s got enough fuel.”

Of course, the “cute white speedster” would throw his race against his current _friend_ and allow himself to be caught, but what if he _didn’t?_ There was, if Prowl admitted it, a little attraction to that idea. Chasing a frame built for speed who, in the controlled environment of the track, could genuinely out-drive him, run him into exhaustion, and then he’d never have to go through with the part of this he wasn’t into. 

Jazz’s grin widened. “Later then?”

“Later,” Prowl agreed. Of course, Prowl was not allowed to find his own partners; his valve, his spike, his _frame_ belonged to Jazz to play with and share as he willed. Their relationship had theoretically included others for a while, and since Jazz had started following through on his personal fantasy of handing Prowl off to whoever he wished, _later_ was maybe more than just a fantasy.

“I’ll arrange something,” Jazz promised. 

Prowl felt calmer after even that short exchange. Jazz had that effect on him. His dominance, his control, the roles they took in this relationship were just so _omnipresent_ that even when Prowl was preparing to do the exact opposite of submitting, Jazz could knock Prowl out of a coding-induced spiral of arousal and abhorrent fantasies. 

“In the meantime,” Jazz continued, gesturing for Prowl to precede him into the starting box, “we have an itch you need to scratch. Doctor’s orders.”

Doctor’s orders. Prowl wished he could be so cavalier about what was about to happen. Jazz viewed this as a simple medical necessity, no different at its core from picking debris out of his undercarriage. He insisted he enjoyed interfacing with Prowl, even in this context, but it wasn’t what he wanted either. 

Prowl folded himself down into his alt form and blipped his siren to let Jazz know he was ready. 

Jazz gunned his engine and took off. Prowl leaped after him without making a conscious decision to do so. His sirens flipped on, filling the air around him with sound and light. Jazz was lighter than Prowl was. His engine was smaller, but less of his frame was dedicated to armor, towing equipment, and reinforced ramming struts. That made him both faster and more maneuverable. Prowl’s advantage was in endurance and training.

He started by looping around the edge of the obstacles where both he and Prowl could push their speed without hindrance. Prowl chased, but regained control of himself so he could ease back instead of redlining his engine to catch Jazz right away. This first part was to make sure Prowl was good and exhausted by the time he did catch his prey. He was tempted to do less damage that way, and it would be longer before Prowl’s fraying nerves forced him back into this position.

It was an almost leisurely stretch to feel himself pushing his frame. Not too hard, not yet, but enough to make him feel... comfortable. 

He was pleasantly warm, feeling stretched out into his form and just starting to feel the fatigue when Jazz darted into the maze of obstacles. Prowl almost overshot the turn, but managed a sharp swerve into the simulated street. 

Ahead of him, Jazz was already turning down another street. His tail light disappeared around the bend and Prowl roared after him with his sirens wailing. Jazz was _his._

His catch! His prey!

Jazz might have been Prowl’s, but he wasn’t making it easy. They twisted and turned together through the simulated streets, fishtailing after each curve. 

Another siren entered the arena, and Prowl’s vision went red with possessive jealousy. No! 

He could work together with the others to take down a fleeing suspect, but those suspects weren’t Jazz. Jazz was his in every way there could be and _Prowl wasn’t sharing._ He almost turned to confront the interloper, to fight him off and defend his mate and prize, but Jazz flickered his tail lights teasingly and Prowl forgot all about abandoning the chase. 

But he was tiring now. Slowing. Jazz was slowing too, but Prowl wasn’t thinking rightly. He had to catch Jazz before he the other did! He couldn’t let him escape!

Prowl anticipated Jazz’s next turn and rammed right through the corner of the flimsy faux-building to slam into Jazz’s side. Jazz shrieked in surprise as they went skidding together, tangled up, and Prowl pushed harder with his engine. Jazz slammed into the building across the street. His lighter armor crunched between it and his attacker. 

He spun his wheels weakly and Prowl transformed to pounce. 

Once he had a good grip on Jazz, who was beginning to recover from the two impacts, Prowl dragged him into the building and flipped him onto his back in the center of the floor. 

Jazz spun his wheels, then transformed to get his feet under him. 

He looked dizzy and dazed and Prowl tackled him, knocking him to the floor and flipping him over again to cuff his hands behind his back. Jazz moaned. Not an aroused sound, but a pained one. Part — most — of Prowl didn’t care.

He didn’t realize his panels had retracted and his spike extended until he started rutting against Jazz’s armor. 

“Slow down, Prowl,” Jazz moaned. “Lemme catch m’breath.”

Prowl just growled. He started feeling around for Jazz’s valve panel. If his prey wasn’t going to let him in... 

“Pet! Stop!” Jazz barked.

Prowl froze. Two imperatives warred in his processor. _Take_ or _submit..._

Jazz took the moment to wiggle to his knees under Prowl and brace himself with his chest. He hissed in pain, but didn’t try to escape either the cuffs or Prowl. Instead he spread his legs a little further apart and slid his modesty armor away. “Okay. I’m ready.”

But Prowl had been knocked out of the single-minded pursuit. “Jazz. I...”

“Finish up, officer,” Jazz flirted and commanded all at once. “Or I’ll see if Barricade can do the job.”

Barricade’s siren, which had faded to background noise once he’d had Jazz secured, filled his senses and Prowl snarled. “You’re _mine.”_

“Yeah, officer? Prove it!”

Hesitation _gone,_ Prowl dug his fingers into Jazz’s armor, leaving dents, and thrust into his valve. He growled. Jazz grunted, slamming forward into the ground, but didn’t cry out. 

Prowl, his control gone, rutted into Jazz’s wet, hot heat. Some part of him noted that the ease and slickness of his entrance and guessed that Jazz had prepared himself before entering the track. The rest of him was too busy just chasing his pleasure, taking his prize. It had been a long race, and Prowl _needed_ to get off inside him. 

Jazz didn’t have a contraceptive implant to keep the any sparklets spun off of his spark from entering his gestation sack. Prowl wasn’t wearing a condom. There was every chance in the world that they’d conceive from this. It was planned they’d do so eventually and weren’t too worried about the timing.

Usually, Prowl was rather ambivalent to the idea of siring their clutch. Right now, he could almost see Jazz’s frame bend under the burden. His abdomen armor would have to be removed to allow the egg sack to expand...

Prowl overloaded, pushing his transfluid as far as he could into Jazz’s valve. 

Jazz groaned. He hadn’t overloaded. He rarely did during these sessions. Prowl’s ethics demanded Jazz be willing, but right now Prowl was lost enough in the demands of his own coding that he didn’t care if Jazz enjoyed it. This was _his_ prey and he was going to make him carry his eggs.

“Done, Prowl?” Jazz gasped, shifting under Prowl’s weight. 

“No even close,” Prowl growled back. He pulled out of his mate long enough to flip him over with a loud _clang!_ Jazz cried out as his shoulders were wrenched hard by the cuffs, and while he tried to find a more comfortable way to lay, Prowl pushed his legs apart and thrust back into his valve. “I’m going to spark you this time.” 

“NNnnn... ‘kay.” Accepting and willing, even if this wasn’t pleasurable for him, Jazz opened up his chest plates. 

Excited by the sight, Prowl thrust harder, faster. The clangs of their bodies colliding together echoed through the faux building.

Prowl overloaded again. 

As the sparks faded away, he probed at the armor seams around Jazz’s stomach. He couldn’t reach under there and check how full Jazz’s egg sack was and he wondered if he should frag him a third time, just to make sure his eggs had everything they needed. 

Then Jazz’s spark chamber spiraled open and Prowl forgot all about those musings. 

They didn’t need to sparkmerge to conceive. Every mech shed undeveloped sparks from their own on a schedule. The sparks were collected up in the egg chamber, where, if there was transfluid there for his systems to use, the spark chambers and eggshells were constructed. Jazz’s spark shed sparklets every few decacycles, and Prowl’s scheduled visits to the track should be synchronized to once out of every three of Jazz’s fertile cycles. They’d done the math.

Prowl, lost in the the coding’s demand that he take and own and violate Jazz in every way he could, thought that wasn’t good enough. He’d imparted the needed ‘fluid to get the eggs started; he was going to _make_ his mate shed some sparklets _now._

He opened up his own spark chamber and slammed it against Jazz’s. 

Here, with no processors or coding between them, truth reigned. Jazz’s spark surged into their connection and overwhelmed Prowl, who ceded to his mate, his master. The violence was stripped away and the merge filled with gentleness. A gentle master. 

And a gentle pet, part of them assured. 

Prowl didn’t like himself like this, and Jazz agreed but thought of these encounters as... medicinal. Prowl needed this to keep himself sane, and Jazz would submit himself to much, much worse to keep his gentle, submissive pet the rest of the time. They didn’t have to be enjoyable; they had to be _useful._

And even if their conception wasn’t the most gentle or romantic interfacing they could have, Jazz was going to love their hatchlings... 

... Love.

It exploded between them and Prowl’s vision went white. 

He came back to his frame laying on his side, curled protectively around Jazz. His frame heaved, struggling to draw in the air he needed for his engine. He was too exhausted to move... which was part of the plan. The coding was once again relatively quiescent, satisfied with having caught and fragged and violated a victim. Bred him. For his part, Prowl was too tired to feel properly horrified by his actions, but he knew it’d hit him later tonight. He patted Jazz’s side weakly. 

Jazz groaned and pulled the quick release on the cuffs to free his hands. Prowl heard his chest finish snapping closed, looked down to see the mess of scuffs, dents and fluids he’d made of his mate. 

“Did we...?”

“Dunno yet.” Jazz tucked his head down against Prowl’s chest and hugged him tightly. Prowl held him back, taking comfort in the contact. “It’s too soon to tell.” 

Prowl wasn’t sure if he should be hoping that he succeeded in sparking Jazz or to hope that he had failed. Or that the sparks would burn out. “I’m transferring departments,” he blurted out, because that meant a reduction in rank and pay, and if they were going to be living off of Prowl’s salary while Jazz incubated a clutch... 

“Oh?” Jazz sounded more curious than worried. Then, “don’t worry. I have arrangements.”

Prowl knew that. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re not. _Our family_ won’t be.” Jazz squeezed Prowl’s waist. “I still have one of the houses,” he confided quietly. Prowl knew this, but he listened like it was the first time. “It’s in the towers district, and there’s plenty of space for hatchings to run around and play in the garden. There’s renters in it right now, but we have enough time before I lay that I could make arrangements. We won’t be trying to raise a family in your one-bedroom apartment.” 

“It sounds nice.” Prowl didn’t ask why they weren’t already living at Jazz’s townhouse. He’d driven by there once, right after Jazz had given him the address. It was inconveniently located away from Prowl’s department. It was also big. Small compared to the mansions and, well, towers around it, but it was still three stories tall, with a basement. The garden didn’t sprawl around it, but it was still a good size for entertaining. A good thing, maybe, for a family, but very difficult for two busy workingmechs to keep clean, repaired and landscaped. Prowl wasn’t sure what they’d do about that when, inevitably, they had their clutch.

They had some savings too. And Jazz’s various investments. Prowl’s upcoming reduction in salary would be a hit if Jazz did lay now, but they’d survive.

“So why the change? You’re not being reprimanded...” 

“No.” Prowl nuzzled his mate. “I’m transferring to Internal Affairs.” Not a move that would endear him to his current coworkers, but it was the right thing to do.

Somewhere outside their flimsy shelter, Prowl heard a baton go off and Barricade’s current “friend” screamed. 

.

.

.

End

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t usually beg for reviews or comments because it’s undignified, but I need to ask ~~because anxiety is a bitch like that~~ : was the lack of comments on the stories I posted last week due to lack of interest in this series or just unfortunate timing on my part?
> 
> ┬┴┬┴┤(･_├┬┴┬┴


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